_that men may know Jesus_ to the trusting, risking, loving point, the
glad point. Everything that we can bring of gold and learning and labour
and skill is precious, it is as purest gold, _if_ it lead men into
heart-touch with Jesus. And it clean misses the mark if it does less.
Who would be content to give a Belgian or Polish starveling a bare bit
of bread, and a lonely stick of wood, and a rag of cloth. Bite and stick
and cloth are good, but it's a _meal_ and a _fire_, and some _clothing_,
the man wants. And you have both ready at hand. _Things_ are good,
provided by money and skill and research and painstaking efforts. They
_do_ good. But it's Jesus men need. It's the warm touch that lets _Him_
fully in with all of His human sympathy and all of His God-power, that's
what they need.
Given the sun and quickly come warmth and food and shelter, health and
vigour and increase of life. Given Jesus, and the warm touch with Him,
in His simple fullness, just as He is, and surely and not slowly, there
come flooding in all the rest of an abundant life, physical and mental
and of the spirit.
John "_was not the light_." He was only the candlestick. And he was
content to be that. He was a good candlestick. The light was held up. It
could shine out. How grateful the crowd was. The road had been so dark.
It is a bad thing when light and candlestick change places. The crowd
seems to get the two confused sometimes. We get to thinking that the
candlestick is the light, and the light is--lost sight of. We gather
about the candlestick. It'll surely lead the way out through the dark
night into day. It's such a good candlestick, so highly polished. And
sometimes the human candlestick itself gets things a bit mixed. It
thinks, then it feels, then it knows, with a peculiar quality of
self-assertive certainty, that after all _it_ is the light that
lighteth every one that is so blessed as to come within the radius of
its shining. And brass does take a high polish, and makes an attractive
appearance. It does send out a sparkle and radiance _if_ only it is
somewhere within range of some real light, patient enough to keep on
shining in the dark, regardless of non-appreciation or misrepresentation
or misunderstanding.
Is it any wonder the road is so full of people wandering in the night
gathered about candlesticks? Is it surprising that the ditches are so
full of men and candlesticks mixed up and mired up together? Yet it is
always heart-breaking. There may be talent and training of the highest
and best, and scholarship and culture, eloquence and skill, institutions
and philanthropies. And there is so much of these. And these are good in
themselves, and of priceless practical worth when seen and held in their
right relation to _the_ thing.
But it needs to be said often and earnestly: _these are not the light_.
They are given to point men better to the Light. They're road-signs,
index-fingers. And they are seen at their best when they point to the
Light so clearly that the crowd quite forgets them in hastening to the
Light they point out. They serve their true purpose in being so
forgotten. They are still serving and serving best even while forgotten.
The Real Thing of Light.
And John goes on to intensify yet more what he is thinking and saying:
_there was the true light_, _the real thing of light_. They were
bothered, in John's old age when he is writing, with false lights,
make-pretend lights, that led people astray. Every generation seems to
have been so bothered and confused. And even our own doesn't seem to
have entirely escaped the subtle contagion. The ground is a bit swampy
in places, boggy.
Low-lying land runs to bog and swamp. And the air gets thick with heavy
vapours. And strange will-of-the-wisp lights form out of the foul damp
gasses, and they flit about in the gloom this way and that. And people
are led astray by them deeper into swamp and bog. It's surprising to
find how many, that grow up in well-lit neighbourhoods, wander off after
the swamp lights, and even follow them so contentedly. That's partly
due, without doubt, to the false lights borrowing so much of the mere
outer incidentals from the true. And they succeed in producing a make-up
that easily deceives the unwary and untaught.
There's a teaching to-day, for instance, that magnifies bodily healing.
The name of Christ is freely used. And the old Book of God freely
quoted. And men are really healed. There can be no question of that.
There are sufficient facts at hand to make that incontestably clear.
But bodily healing does not necessarily argue divine power. There are
results secured through the operation of unfamiliar mental powers that
seem miraculous. And clearly there are devilish miracles as well as
divine. Miracles simply reveal a supernatural power, that is, a power
above the ordinary workings of nature. Then one must apply a touchstone,
a test, to learn what that power is.
It is striking that in this teaching I speak of now there is never
mention of the atoning blood of Christ. And this is the sure touchstone
by which to detect the real thing of light and the make-believe. The
outstanding thing in the life of Christ is His death, and the tremendous
meaning which His own teaching put into that fact of His death.
There is none of the red tinge to this make-believe light. It has the
unwholesome unnatural tingeing of swamp lights. And those who are healed
through this teaching will find themselves in a bondage the more
terrible because so subtle. And only the power of the blood of Christ
can ever break that bondage.
There was the real thing of light. Here _is_ the real thing of light.
There's a distinct tingeing of red in it. It's the only light. It only
is the light. Every other is a make-pretend light, however subtle its
imitations and reflections: it will lead only into swamp and bog and
ditch and worse.
And then John goes on to add a very simple bit that has not always been
quite understood in its simplicity. There was the real thing of light
_that lighteth every man that cometh into the world_. There is a little
group of varied readings into the English here, found in the margin of
the various revisions. But the central statement remains the same.
Whether John is saying that the light, that lighteth every man, was now
coming down into the world in a closer way. Or, that every man is
lighted as _he_ comes into the world, the chief thing being told is the
same. Every man in the world is lighted by this Light.
Through nature, the nightly twinklers in the wondrous blue overhead, the
unfailing freshness of the green out of the brown under foot; through
the never-ceasing wonders of these bodies of ours, so awesomely and
skilfully made, and kept going; through that clear quiet inner voice
that does speak in every human heart amidst all the noises of earth and
of passion; through these the light _is_ shining, noiselessly, softly,
endlessly, by day and night.
It is the same identical light that John is telling us of here that so
shines in upon every man, and always has. There is no light but His. His
later name is Jesus. From the first, and everywhere still, it is the
light that shines from Him that lights men. He was with the Father in
the beginning. He acted for the Father in that creation week. He gave
and sustained all life of every sort everywhere, and does, though only a
third of us know His later, nearer, newer Name--Jesus.
But the light was obscured, terribly beclouded and bedimmed, hindered by
earth-fogs, and swampy clouds rising up, until we are apt to think there
was no light, and is none; only darkness. Then He came closer, and yet
closer. He came in nearer form so as to get the light closer, and let
it shine _through_ fog and cloud, for the sake of the befogged,
beswamped crowd.
And then--ah! hold your heart still--_then_ He let _the_ Light-holder,
the great human Lantern, be _broken_, utterly broken, that so the light
might flash out through broken lantern in its sweet soft wondrous
clearness into our blinded blinking eyes, and show us the real way back
home. It was in that breaking that it got that wondrous exquisite red
tingeing that becomes the unfailing hall-mark, the unmistakable evidence
of the real thing of light.
And it's only as men know of this latest coming of the light, this
tremendous tragic Jesus-coming of the light, that they can come into the
full light. That's the reason He came in the way He did. That's the
reason when He gets possession of us there's the passion to take the
full Jesus-light out to every one. And this passion burns in us and
through us, and ours, and sweeps all in the sweep of its tender holy
flame. In this way every man may be fully lit, and so in following the
Jesus-light he shall not walk in the darkness where he has been, but in
the sweet clear light of life.
Looking for Recognition.
Then we come to the first of John's heart-breaking sentences. John had a
hard time writing his Gospel. He was not simply writing a book. That
might have been fairly easy for him with his personal knowledge and all
the facts so familiar. But he is telling about his dearest Friend. And
the telling makes his heart throb harder, and his eyes fill up, and the
writing look dim to him, as he tries to put the words down.
Listen: _He was in the world, and the world was made through Him, and
the world recognized, or rather acknowledged, Him not._ It was His
world, His child, His creation. He had made it. But it failed to
acknowledge Him. He came walking down the street of life. He met the
world going the other way. And He gave it a warm good-morning greeting.
And it knew Him full well. It knew who He was. But it turned its face
aside and walked by with no return greeting. This is what John is
saying. It recognized, it acknowledged Him not.
You mothers know the glad hour that comes in a mother's life when her
little babe of the wee weeks knows her _for the first time._ She's busy
bathing or nursing, or, she's just hovering over the precious morsel of
humanity when there's really nothing needing to be done. And the babe's
eyes catch her own and _a smile comes,_ the first smile of recognition.
And the mother-heart gives a glad leap. She murmurs to herself, "Oh,
baby knows me!"
And when the father comes home that night she greets him with, "Baby
knew me to-day." And there's a soft bell-like tender ring in her voice
that vibrates on the strings of his heart. And all the folks within
range are advised of the day's event. And the mother clear forgets all
the sharp-cutting pain back there just a little before, in this joy,
this look of recognition.
I knew of a woman. She was of an old family, of unusual native gift, and
rare accomplishment. And her babe came. And the time came when
ordinarily there would be that first sweet look of recognition, but--_it
didn't come._ There was a defect; something not as it should be. And you
mothers all know how she felt, yes, and you true fathers, too. She was
heart-broken. And she turned aside from all the busy round of activity
in which she had been the natural leader. And for years she devoted all
her splendid talents, her strength and time, to just one thing, a very
simple thing; only this,--_getting a look of glad recognition out of two
babe-eyes._
_He_ looked into the face of His child, His world, for the look of
recognition. But there was none. And He was heart-broken. And He devoted
all His strength and time, Himself, for those human years to--what? One
thing, just one thing, a very simple thing, only this: to getting a look
of recognition out of the eyes of His child.
Aye, there's more yet here. He _looks_ into our faces, eager for that
simple direct answering look into His face and out of our eyes, yours
and mine. And we give Him--things, church-membership, orthodox belief,
intense activity, aggressive missionary propaganda, money in good
measure, tireless, and then tired-out service--_things!_ And all good
things. But _the_ thing, the direct look into His own face answering His
own hungry searching look, that look in the face that reveals the inner
heart that He _waits_ for so often, and waits, a bit sore at heart.
For you know the eye is the face of the face. It's the doorway into the
soul, out through which the soul, the man within, looks. I look at you,
the man inside here looks out at you through my eye. And I look at the
real you down through your eye. The real man is hidden away within, but
looks out through the eye and is looked at only through the eye. We
really give ourselves to Jesus in the look direct into His face which
tells Him all, and through which He transforms us.
A Heart-breaking Verse.
Then comes John's second heart-breaking verse; but it is just a bit more
heart-breaking in what it says. Listen: _He came to His own home, and
they that were His own kinsfolk received Him not into the house but kept
Him standing out in the cold and storm of the wintry night._
One of you men goes home to-night. It's your own home, shaped on your
own personality through the years. It's a bit late. You've had a long
hard day. You're tired. It's stormy. The wind and the rain chill you as
you turn the corner. And you pull your coat a bit snugger as you quicken
your steps and think of home, warmth and comfort, loved ones, and rest
for body and spirit, too.
As you come to the door you reach for your latch-key, and find, in the
busy rush, you seem to have forgotten it, somehow. So you ring the bell
or knock. And suppose--be patient with me a bit, please. Suppose your
loved ones know you're there. You even see a hand drawing aside the edge
of the window shade, and two eyes that you know so well peer out through
the crack at you; then the shade goes to again. Yes, they know you're
there. But the door, your own door, doesn't open. How would you feel?
And some one says to himself, "That's not a good illustration. That
thing couldn't happen. It isn't natural." No: you're right. It _isn't_
natural. It could not happen to _you_. I am sure it could not happen to
_me_. If it could I'd be heart-broken. _But this is what happened to
Him!_ This is what John is saying here. He came to His own front door,
and they whose very image revealed their close kinship to Him, received
Him not into the home, but kept the door fast in His face.
Then there's a later translation. This old King James version bears the
date of 1611, I think. And the English Revision is dated 1881, I
believe. And this American Standard Revision I am using has 1901 on its
title page. But there's a later revision. It bears a yet later date,
1915, April 27. But it is a shifting date. Each translator fixed his own
date.
This latest translation runs something like this: He _comes_ to His own.
That's you and myself. We belong to Him. He gave His breath to us in
Eden. He gave His breath to you and me at our birth. He gave His blood
for us on Calvary. We belong to Him. The image of His kinship is stamped
upon us. We may not acknowledge it, but that can't change the fact.
_He comes to His own, and His own_--and here, as the scholars would say,
there are variant readings. Let me give you one or two I have found.
Here is one: He comes to His own, and His own--puts a chair outside the
door on the top-step. It's a large armchair with a cushion in, perhaps.
And then His own talks about Him through the crack of the door, or
likelier, the window. It's reckoned safer to keep the door fast.
Listen to what he says: "He's a wonderful man this Jesus; great teacher,
the greatest; the greatest man of the race; His philosophy, His moral
standards are the ideals; wonderful life; great example." They fairly
exhaust the language in talking about this Man. But notice. It seems a
bit queer. The man they're talking _about_ is _outside the door_. His
own claim is left severely outside.
Some make it read like this: He comes to His own, and they who are His
own open the door a _crack_, maybe a fairly respectably wide crack. We
all like the word _Saviour_. Yes, we cling tenaciously to that.
Selfishly, would you say? We want to be saved from a certain place we
think of as _down_, that we've been taught about, and don't want to go
to--_if it's there;_ the way men talk about it to-day.
And we want to be saved into another certain place we think of as _up_,
and where we surely want to go _after_ we get through down on the
earth, and _must_ go away somewhere else; with that "after" and "must"
carefully underscored. And we want to be saved from all the
inconveniences possible along the way, and to secure all the advantages
and help available: yes, yes, open the door a crack.
But be careful about the width of the opened crack. Let it be just the
proper conventionalized width. Let there be no extremeism about the
wideness of that opening. Things must be proper. For what would the
other crack-open-door-owners think?
And then, too, yet more serious, this Jesus has a way, a most
inconsiderate way of coming in as far as you let Him, and of taking
things into His own hands. Certain people use that word
"inconsiderate"--to themselves, in secret. Jesus changes some things
when He is allowed all the way in. He might change your personal habits,
your home arrangements, some of your social customs and your business
plans.
Of course He changes only what needs changing, as He sees it.
But--then--you--well, some things can be carried _too far_--to suit
_you_. This Jesus has the _all_ habit. He contracted it when He was down
on the earth. Our needs grew the habit. He _gave_ all. And He has a way
of coming in all the way, and of reaching in His pierced hand and
_taking_ all.
He might even put His hand in on that most sacred thing, that holiest of
all, that you guard most jealously--that box. It has heavy hinges, and
double padlocks, and the keys are held hard under the thumb of your
will. Of course there may really not be much in it; and again there may
be very much. But much or little, it is securely kept under that thick
broad thumb of yours.
Oh! you _give_; of _course_; yes, yes, we're all good proper Christian
folk here. We give a tenth, and even much more. We support an aggressive
missionary propaganda. That's the thing, you know, in our day, for good
church people. We give to all the good things. Ye-es, no doubt. And we
are very careful, too, that that _inconsiderate_ Hand shall not disturb
the greater bulk that remains between hinge and lock. That's _yours_. Of
course you are _His_, redeemed, saved by His blood.
Well, well, how these pronouns, "His," "ours," do get mixed up! How
lovely some things are to _sing_ about, in church, and special services,
at Keswick and Northfield. But through it all we hold hard to that key,
we don't let go--_even to Him_, though it is He who entrusts all to our
temporary keeping. We do guard the width of that opening crack, do we
not?
One day I looked through that crack and caught a glimpse of _His face_
looking through full in my own, with those eyes of His. And at first I
wanted to take the door clear off of its hinges and stand it outside
against the bricks, and leave the whole door-space wide for Him.
But I've learned better. No man wants to leave the doorway of his life
unguarded. He must keep the strong hand of his controlling purpose on
the knob of the front door of his life. There are others than He, evil
ones, cunningly subtle ones, standing just at the corner watching for
such an opportunity. And they step quickly slyly in under your untaught
unsuspicious eyes, and get things badly tangled in your life. There's a
better, a stronger way.
Here's the personal translation that I try now, by His help, to work out
into living words, the language of life. He comes to His own, and His
own opens the door wide, and _holds_ it wide open, that He may come in
all the way, and cleanse, and change, readjust, and then shape over on
the shape of His own presence.
But every one must work out his own translation of that; and every one
does. And the crowd reads--not this printed version. It reads this other
translation, the one nearest, in such big print, the one our lives work
out daily. That's the translation they prefer. And that's the
translation they're being influenced by, and influenced by tremendously.
He Came to His Own.
In certain circles in England, they tell of a certain physician years
ago. He came of a very humble family. His father was a gardener on a
gentleman's estate. And the father died. And the mother wasn't able to
pay her son's schooling. But a storekeeper in the village liked this
little bright boy and sent him to school. And he went on through the
higher schooling, became a physician, and began his practice in London.
He became skilled, and then famous, and then wealthy.
He remembered his dear old mother, of course. He sent her money, and
fabrics for dresses, and wrote her. But for a long time, in the busy
absorption of his life, he had not been to see her. And the dear old
mother in the little cottage in the country lived in the sweet
consciousness that her son was a great physician up in the great London.
He was her chief topic of conversation. When the neighbours were in she
would always talk of her son, her Laddie, she called him.
"He's so good to me, my Laddie is. He sends me money. I put it in the
bank. He sends me cloth for dresses; it's quite too good for a plain
body like me. And he writes me letters, such good letters, wonderful
letters. But he's so busy up there, that he hasn't been to see me for a
long time now. You know he's a great doctor now, and he has great skill,
and there are so many needing him. And he's no time at all, even for
himself, I expect. But"--she would always finish her talk as they sat
over the tea by saying, half to herself, really more to herself than to
the little group, with a half-repressed longing sigh, "but, I wish, I
just _wish_ I could _see_ my _Laddie_."
Then some changes took place on the estate. And the cottage where she
had lived so long must be given up. And the dear old woman had to make
new plans. And she cudgeled her old head, and thought, and at last she
said to herself, "I know what I'll do. I'll go-up to London, and I'll
live with Laddie. He'll be so glad to have me." And bright-coloured
visions flitted through her mind, as she sat over her tea by the open
grate. But she wouldn't send him word; no, no, she would surprise him,
and add to his pleasure.
And the dear old soul, in her fine simplicity, did not think into what
this would mean, nor of the difference that had grown up with the years,
in manner of life, between her son and herself. He was a cultured
gentleman, with his well-appointed city home, and the circle of friends
that had grown up about him. And she was a simple uncultured country
woman with a broad provincial twist on her tongue. But she was
blissfully unconscious of this. She would go and live with her Laddie.
It would be so delightful for them both.
And so she went. It was her first train journey, and quite a time of it
she had finding the house. But at last she stands looking up at the
house. "Ugh! does my Laddie live here! in this great mansion?" But there
was the name on the door-plate. There was no mistaking that. And so she
rang the bell. "Is the doctor in?" She could hardly get the word
"doctor" out. She had never called him that before, just Laddie. But now
she must say it. "Is the doctor in?" And the word almost stuck in her
throat as she thought to herself, "This poor man opening the door
doesn't know that the 'doctor' really belongs to _me_."
But in a hard voice the servant said that it was past the hours. She
couldn't see the doctor.
"Ah! bat," she said, quite taken by surprise at being held there, "I
_must_ see him."
"But, I tell you, it's quite too late to see him to-day."
But she resolutely put her stout country-boot in the crack of the door,
and her English jaw set in true English fashion, and she said with that
quietness that has the subtle touch of danger in it, "I'll see the
doctor."
And the servant looked puzzled and went to report about this strangely
insistent woman. And the doctor was annoyed by the interruption in the
midst of something that was absorbing him. He said sharply, "It's past
the hours; I can see no one."
"I told her so, sir," replied the man deferentially, "but she insists in
a strange way, sir."
"What's she like?"
"Oh, just a plain country body, sir."
"Well, show her up."